Fluidity
by ShadowedSoulSpirit
Summary: It's hard to live when you don't know what you are. It was something Izuo struggled with as long as he could remember. Was he a man? Was he a woman? Was it bad that he was unwilling to commit to either? This is the story of how Izuo found his way through his gender identity, and how the Whitebeard crew helped him along the way.
**Fluidity**

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 **A One Piece short story.**

 **Summary: It's hard to live when you don't know what you are. It was something Izuo struggled with as long as he could remember. Was he a man? Was he a woman? Was it bad that he was unwilling to commit to either? This is the story of how Izuo found his way through his gender identity, and how the Whitebeard crew helped him along the way.**

 **Warning: Rated T just to be safe. No language. Just mature themes.**

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It's hard to live when you don't know what you are.

It's a simple continuity, genuinely. It's about having a foundation to build off; but you can't build the structure you have in mind if you have no idea what keeps it stable.

It will only come crumbling down.

It's hard to live when you don't know what you are.

I mean, I have it easy; compared to the lives flashed as headlines for others of the Worst Generation. I found solace in the teachings of my village, which expressed harmony and unity with the mind and all of its quirks. It was there that I felt like I understood my path; that I felt I had a map I would walk step for step in line with.

I missed those times.

Not long after, peace was distorted. What was it anymore? No one knew. Conflict after conflict. Families that were once magnets began ricocheting off one another in a frenzy. Growing up, indifferent to the meaning of calm versus calamity, I decided to sail under a pirate mast. It appeared no different from my homeland, the land that was ravaged afterwards; and the teachings of inner peace were soon lost in the swell of dark ocean tides.

What was peace?

I couldn't remember anymore.

We were not blind and deceived by our humble existence, the one we once lived. We knew of Shichibukai and Yonkos but did not fear them. When the dreaded Edward Newgate, Whitebeard, arrived at port, we gave him as little of a welcoming as we did our neighbors now. When he declared the island as his territory, we did not rebuke. When he drank our ceremonial sake dry, we didn't so much as bat an eyelash. When he declared he was to leave almost soon as he arrived, we did not mutter or curse or weep or rejoice. What he had delivered was a filmy peace, the kind that dew upon the heads of restless grass; but we could not see it.

It was hard to live. Then. Now. Always.

I asked to join Whitebeard's crew myself. I had been batting with the idea all morning, dressed in my ceremonial garb. It was stitched for a thick-necked man and did not appreciate my long neck or my thick bundle of hair that constantly filtered its way beneath the material. It's funny to say that's how my decision was made.

I asked to join him just because of my outfit.

He laughed of course; guzzled a barrel of sake that survived the past terrorism of the rest. I was a small human; a child to some. Standing before a monster of a man, holding two pistols trained on him like _I_ could threaten a Yonko into submitting to my will, was nothing more than a suicidal joke. A sudden flash flood of gumption and freedom had washed over me however, and I felt like I couldn't breathe the air of this island any longer before I would drown.

I still haven't figured out why he said okay.

The first day on the crew was the hardest.

I had never fought in the field of pirates before; all combat I had taken place in were honorable duels with other people of the community. Never was I prepared for the dirty and sly tactics of a pirate, but I learned quickly, even if the first night resulted in two broken ribs and a cracked arm. During the entire scuffle—if I was to even call it that—I felt the Yonko's eyes always on me, watching every movement, how I would still drag myself up with grace despite the bruises and the limp that cried defeat.

I thought at first that he was judging me; perhaps even regretting the decision all together. I'll learn later that wasn't so; that a filtered visor corrupted my mind for a long time.

It's hard to live when you don't know what you are.

I was placed in the Fourth Division for the first week; a trial run the others would sneer. I can still recall their roaring, thunderous laughter when I approached the commander in a kimono fit for a woman—and for me. The commander didn't even so much linger on anything below my face, like he didn't need to acknowledge what he already deemed acceptable.

His name was Thatch.

I could say many things about Thatch; his kind smile, his easy demeanor, or the way he likes to jar you in his mischief—but I'll save that for another time. Another day.

Another place.

Thatch kept me tightly folded under his wing for that first week. Most places he went, there I was, in varying forms of the ceremonial garb that inhabited my island. Most of the others of the division grew accustomed to my presence, and since the first day, have never spoken out loud against whatever I decided to wear.

I was still confused.

One time, I was staring at the clothes, the hand sewn fabric I had brought along with me with anguish. I had them hanging in a storage room, one of a man, and the other a woman. Which would fit me better? Which was meant for me? It was obviously the man's, but what if I felt the woman's most embodied me? Why couldn't I commit to either or? Why was this a problem anyway?

Why were clothes even gendered?

Thatch found me in that flustered mess. I never wanted anyone to see the conflict I had always had, over which was more proper or which was more fitting. It was hard to see the look on his face when he caught the sight of my tear stained one, because I was sure it was judgement written plainly across his brow.

"What's up Izuo?" He asks gently, like he was pressing a cloth to a bleeding wound. I couldn't breathe. I would open my mouth but nothing would come in, no sweet relief I have longed for, just a nice cavern for the rivulets of my tears to drip into. He only watched my face, not my clothes or the hair that lay heaped on my shoulders. He watched my eyes and only my eyes.

Like he didn't care what I wore.

"I… don't know…" I was a subordinate, he my temporary commander. There was still pride there, if you can still call the shattered yet taped piece of my psyche that.

Whatever I was, I didn't want to be weak; but weakness was all I could feel.

He glanced between the outfits and me.

What I didn't expect was the grin.

"Trying to pick out your clothes for tomorrow? Already?" He chuckles heartedly, "Man, you're the most meticulous pirate ever. Mind picking mine out? I think I'm due a fashion change."

He almost didn't catch me when I fell into him crying. No more tears of frustrations.

Tears of acceptance.

But as soon as the bittersweet taste of what I longed for came, it was a gone as fast as my eyes grew tired of crying. Peace was still a distant thought in a land of a war.

Thatch truly kept his word; so the next day he was dragging me to his room, heaping what clothes he had on the bed and asked for help. I didn't do much to change him or his look; the hair was off limits, and he complained about wearing anything else than the matching shirt and pants because they were comfortable.

When my eyes found a piece of yellow cloth amongst the midst, I snagged it, wrapping around his neck and tying it firmly. He didn't watch my hands—only my face with a smile wide across his.

I never saw Thatch take the scarf off afterwards. Sure, he had to strip it in the showers and at night, but whenever he arrived on the scene of the deck, pompadour fully styled and ready for the morning breakfast, that yellow piece of fabric still adorned his neck.

I liked the color yellow after that.

It reminded me of harmony.

When the week was up, it was bittersweet. Whitebeard must have been satisfied with my assimilation into piracy, because he would just chuckle at my approach and watch my departure. I didn't know what to expect afterwards.

I can't say I was mad at Thatch.

At first I was, sure; the fact that when I was transferred the Sixteenth Division, he didn't even so much as ask the Yonko to allow me to stay under him. He just nodded and took the hasty thing in stride, congratulating me and promising me a grandeur celebration for becoming the newest addition to their crew.

I didn't want to be beneath a new commander, a commander that had new eyes to judge and a different thought process than the always-open Thatch.

I didn't want to be beneath someone who could not handle chaos—another word for me.

I didn't talk at the celebration. Didn't even attempt to be happy about the matter. My masculine clothes I adorned that evening spoke the volumes I could not; soon after the drunken members of the crew divided themselves among less drunken people, I found myself corner by none other than Thatch.

"Is everything okay? You've been acting upset," He pauses for a moment, watching me closely. I drew the fabric of my clothes tighter around myself. "Are you unhappy with your transfer?"

"No," I replied, curtly, wishing desperately that my back wasn't against the wall so I could turn around and leave outright. "I'm unhappy with you. Why didn't you even fight for me? Am I honestly not good enough to be under your division?"

His eyes widen and he lifts his hands quickly, like he could protect himself from the blast of a defusing bomb. "No, no, of course not! I just thought you would be happy if you got a fresh start! Maybe you could work yourself up to be a commander one day yourself."

"Happy? With who? With what?" Frustration was just like that—confusion. The search for answers like I was scrabbling to climb a ten-foot wall that I had no hope of scaling in the first place. "Me, a commander? I don't even know what I am."

He extends an eyebrow.

He had changed his mind. About me. About everything.

"What are you talking about?" He replies earnestly, patting my shoulder, "You're Izuo, of course. Why do you need to be anything else?"

That was the second time he almost didn't catch me before I hit the floor.

He was getting good at it.

Moving to the sixteenth wasn't so hard after all. My commander was a quiet man, never asked let alone spoke against what I wanted to be for the day. All he cared about is whether or not I could fight, and since I was used to the rhetoric of piracy, the answer was most usually yes.

In the afternoons, Thatch would train with me. I wasn't very much of a marksmen to begin with, but I was always drawn to the fire and the kicking recoil of a gun, almost like I was holding myself during one of my discharges of frustration. We always came out smelling like gun smoke, and Thatch always had a hole in his hair when I almost killed him. Sometimes training was more about releasing my frustration then gaining any ground.

The thing I hated most about being a pirate was night watch duty. I didn't like it for one sole reason; I was left alone in the crow's nest. If my track record speaks for anything, it should for the fact that there is a coloration between my time spent alone and my frequent, snapping outbursts. The more time I spent alone, the more I complicated the situation, the more man or woman became a question again.

I had to hold my breath as I scaled my way to the crow's nest, even though I knew when I got there, I would only begin to suffocate sooner.

Except, when I got there, I wasn't alone.

I knew who he was. He was one of the first people that Thatch dragged me too, introducing me to his best friend who accounted me with mellow eyes and a drooping smile. I hadn't formed much of an opinion of Marco that day; but seeing him now made me withdrawal that folder, prepared to write a new report.

"I believe it's my watch tonight," I say, and he glances lazily over at me, one foot perched on the seat with him and one arm slung over it.

"I know, yoi."

At first, sitting with him was awkward. I didn't know the man as well as Thatch did; I almost didn't even speak to anyone else beside the Fourth Division Commander. Marco wouldn't stop staring either. Finally, my self-confidence eroded away my patience.

"What?" I snap, "If you're going to stare at me, at least say something, whether it be insults or how the weather is today."

Despite the way his hand cupped his chin, I could still see a smile.

"I was just wondering. Is that makeup I see?"

I wanted to try it; but whenever we arrived at a new island, my hands hesitated from making the purchase, especially in front of the crew. Was that dedicating me more to one gender than the other? What if I didn't want that?

The makeup, if you could even call it that, was made in the storage room when not even Whitebeard himself was awake drinking. I made it out minerals, plants, the sorts; until I came up with something faintly resembling foundation. When I put it on in the mirror of the bathroom for the first time, I felt a certain feeling nestling its way into my heart.

Once Marco said that, all of that feeling was gone.

"And if it is?"

It was a challenge from me; a question of whether or not he will accept the duel. I was already aware of the power difference between us; it was like being at the base of the rocky cliff and never seeing he top no matter how far you crane your neck.

"I was going to say it looks nice, yoi." He lazily flicks a finger up to my hair. "But what if you did your hair up, so it wouldn't fall in your face and ruin it?"

"Did my hair up…" I felt my jaw come unhinged from the pure shock of his statement. I was prepared for much, more brutal outcomes. Not that.

Not acceptance from him too.

Like he knew it was hard to live when you didn't even know what you were.

He helped me that night, in the casting rays of the moon; to lift my hair up, let the strands finally be raised from my ears and secured behind my head with a clip he had produced. I never asked why he would have one at that time of the night.

But if Thatch's grin the next morning at breakfast was an indication, I knew he had something to do with it.

Even with my hair, even with the makeup Thatch delivered eagerly into my hands at the next island we stopped, I didn't like leaning. I didn't like being on the railing and tipping one way further than the other. I liked straddling the fence, but I didn't think I could do it. The hair, the makeup, the kimonos; I was growing more feminine as the days progressed, and even though I rejoiced at the change, something inside me screamed for something more—for me to let one foot return to the other side of the line.

When the Sixteenth Division Commander stepped down—stress, he would say—the others of the division were crying my name as a replacement. I never had been so awestruck before, maybe didn't even recognize the way my strength had developed since the time I joined. I always underestimated myself, but the other men of the division wouldn't take anyone else but me. It felt great. Happy even.

Whitebeard didn't accept it.

In a discussion with the other fifteen commanders, my former one, me, and the captain himself, his true feelings soon came to light.

"I don't think he should be a commander," I had to swallow that, with everyone staring at me, with my back still straight, and my hands still folded in grace. "Not yet, anyway."

The others didn't dare speak against his decision; but I did.

"Apparently, if I'm qualified, I don't see why I shouldn't be a commander," I protested humbly, "I can do it."

"I know you can," He chuckles, "But how can you lead other struggles when you struggle with yourself?"

It felt like I was thumped; straight up slapped in the back of the head. He did not know, shouldn't have know. One of the traitors was sitting amongst me, and when I flashed dangerous eyes at both Marco and Thatch, none of them gave away they were the snitch.

I got up and walked away.

The next island was one on the further tips of the Grand Line. It seemed like an open republic, accepting most things that would have been found indecent in the other societies of the world; men were holding hands with other men, women would openly kiss their respective other of the same gender. It was here when I was walking around in the sweltering heat, my makeup nearly melting off my face that I met with a young boy.

"Hello mister," He greets. The gender identification stung me, and I know it reflected on my face. "Oh I'm sorry, miss."

The feeling did not change.

He stared up at me with curious eyes; and despite myself, I returned the gaze, noticing plump lips and big eyes and long eyelashes beneath a short curtain of boyishly cut hair. Had I been mistaken?

"I'm sorry, young…" The words caught in my throat. I know what I felt, just then, when the label was plastered on me. Why did I have any right to do the same?

He smiled though. "Man, please. I'm a boy. I just transitioned two months ago."

He.

He talked all about it like it was the greatest thing on earth; how he knew a friend that knew a friend that was born female and decided to transition. He rattled on and on about how accepting his masculinity was the best thing he could have done, and he was so happy to it, was glad someone took the plunge first because without them he couldn't even do it.

Suddenly, he paused his story; and in that moment I realized it was tears running down my face that stopped him.

"Are you okay?" he asks tenderly, as if he knew me.

The real me.

"You talk of this great thing…" I speak softly. He had to lean in just to hear me, "But what is a person if they don't know if they are a man or a woman..?"

It's the question that's always haunted me. The question that made it hard to live, because I didn't know what I was.

"They call it genderfluid here." I whipped around when I heard the deeper voice, not of the boy but of the man who I came to know as my friend.

Thatch.

He smiled, his arms filled with spices and other small things for the kitchen. "I asked around. They said they had a couple people like that. Some days they dressed up as a boy. Some days they dress up like a girl. Just whatever they are feeling that day."

Genderfluid. I had a name, an identification. I wasn't the rarest case of mistaken identity. I was person, and I had a name to call my difference. Genderfluid.

Genderfluid. One who changed gender like it was a tide, like water did in the great wide ocean we sail.

After that, after I fell into Thatch again sobbing, it felt good. It felt like Whitebeard had shown up, had declared me his territory, had delivered peace into my hands without any questions asked as he did my island. I was made the Sixteenth Division Commander a few days after. Within a week, I was calling Whitebeard Pops with such a hearty devotion for what he has done. It was because of him, accepting my request to join that finally got me to this point that I understood who I was. I owe him, Thatch, Marco, everyone, the world.

That trip to the open-door island awakened everyone's eyes. Soon, people were coming out as gay, bisexual, transgender. They saw something, took it, and ran with it; so never again was anyone laughed at. That's what makes Pop's crew one of the greatest, I think: the ability to accept what others think are unacceptable.

Sometimes afterwards, I dressed up like man, grinned when I was addressed as he, and messed around like one of the guys.

Sometimes, I dressed up like a woman, and laughed when some men stuttered and gracefully sat in my seat for our meals.

But always, no matter what I decided I felt most comfortable as for the day, I was Izuo.

I was always Izuo.

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 **I wanted to write something about how accepting the Whitebeard pirates are, whether it be the son of Gol D. Roger, or becoming open to new ideas about a nakama as Izuo is described here. I hope I did just that.**

 **-Soul Spirit-**


End file.
